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“In this world there is so much of what looks like love and sounds like love, and calls itself love, but it isn’t, it’s just people saying and doing what they think they ought to say and do.” -Evening
The sun shines clear over the sparkling waves forming the horizon. It rained the night before, making Lila stare out the window nervously for the hours until it subsided. Now, Will can see the clouds in the distance, far from threatening.
“So who’s Hannibal?” Alana asks from beside him. He tears his eyes from the sea to look at her and wishes that he’d put an extra shot of whiskey in his coffee. He would be lying if he said that Alana’s more-than-mildly-curious tone doesn’t set him a bit on edge.
“His mother moved here from Lithuania with him when he was a kid and became our housekeeper. After she died, he took over her cooking and gardening duties.”
They arrived two years before Will was born and he’s known Hannibal for his entire life. There’s a nine-year gap between them. With Will now twenty-two, Hannibal and him are somewhere between acquaintances and friends.
Will sips his coffee, enjoying the feel of both the alcohol and the sweltering liquid burning at his throat. “Dad put him through med school, so he’s a doctor now. Psychiatry, like you. Came back to cook for Lila’s wedding.”
“That was nice of him,” Alana says, a bit taken aback.
Will smiles at the memory: Hannibal calling up Lila to offer his services (promising her the favorite white chocolate ganache cake) and Will’s sister declaring profusely that he must be too busy to spend time on her. But Hannibal could not be dissuaded.
The truth is that Will almost didn’t return from university for the wedding, simply in response to the anxiety of seeing Hannibal. He went so far as to concoct a plan involving a ‘sick friend’ calling from the city hospital in need of someone to look after him. It’s ridiculous, he hadn’t seen the man in years, but the enamored sentiments (having existed since he was old enough to have crushes) never actually faded.
But he would never escape the guilt his mother would inflict on him in place of good-natured Lila, nor the guilt he would inflict on himself. So he forced himself to attend.
Luckily, thus far he has managed to evade the man’s attentions, coming face to face with him for the first time only minutes earlier, when they met on the docks before Hannibal set sail. Keeping his face blank and his voice level was…painful, to say the least, but he thinks he pulled it off rather nicely.
Only two more days to go.
“He calls you William,” she observes. Although true, it’s a strange point to make. Everyone but the doctor calls him Willy, a childhood nickname that he never quite dropped.
“Lila is really pleased he’s here,” Will says, pointedly ignoring the statement. “She didn’t say anything, of course, but she would have been upset if he missed it.”
“I’m glad he made it, then.”
“I’m glad you made it. Taking a day away from your studies must have been impossible. Let alone three.” Will refers to her psychiatric summer work, which apparently takes up six days a week, all day. It had been difficult for her to get a position as an intern in one of Baltimore’s more prestigious facilities. The only woman there. Will’s proud of her, of course, but part of him wishes that she had more time to spend with him back here in their hometown.
“Oh, hush, Willy. You know I’m busy. Now if you’ll excuse me I most likely have bridesmaid business to attend to. Or something.” She stands with a mocking huff and winks at him as she walks back up the hill through the grass.
Will watches the sway of her flowered skirt beneath her stiff tweed jacket and it hits him how good a couple she and Hannibal would make. Smart, strong-minded and educated, but entirely humble. Will can see them taking the Baltimore scene by storm.
Again, that pain in his chest, that only intensifies when he looks out at the water and sees the swift-moving form of Hannibal and his boat. Images of the two hitting it off at the wedding reception, swaying arm-in-arm to popular music, chinking glasses of champagne.
He sighs and lets himself fall back against the swell of the hill. When he angles his back just far enough, he sees the back door of the summer house slam shut as Alana walks inside. He falls asleep.
“If you sleep out here, you will be sunburnt for all the wedding pictures,” a voice tells him. He can’t be bothered to move, the sun feels too warm on his chest, the grass too cool on his back. Fingers brush his jaw. “William.”
He jerks awake, surprised to see Hannibal seated calmly beside him, hands placed tightly in his lap.
“H-hello.” His stutter earns a smile.
“Good morning, William,” the man replies, despite the fact they already greeted one another earlier.
“How’s the water?” Good job, Willy. Conversational. Calm.
“A bit choppy, from the storm last night, but once I got far enough out it was quite smooth.”
“I’m surprised that old boat is still in working order.”
“It was necessary to re-knot quite a bit of the lines, but it was worth it. How are your studies progressing?” He changes the topic so quickly that Will is almost left reeling. Two can play at that game.
“Just fine. What do you think of Alana?” Though, given the copious subjects for conversation, he probably shouldn’t have picked the one that makes him want to throw himself into the ocean.
“She is lovely. Accomplished as well, I believe?” He’s asking about her summer job, Will knows, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“Pretty, right?”
Hannibal chuckles. “For you, or for me?”
You. Me. Neither of us.
“I’m just saying.” Will stands and glances down when Hannibal doesn’t move. He feels a bit annoyed that Hannibal doesn’t even squint against the sun, just looks calmly up at him. “I think I’ll go get something to eat.”
“There is a leftover steak tartine in the cold box. With radishes and sheep’s cheese. Your father was hungry late last night.”
Will scoffs, “You’d think you were our housekeeper again.”
The rehearsal dinner is perfect. From afar, at least. From where Will is sitting, in the midst of everything, it seems significantly less so.
His father wants him to get medical attention again. Apparently, the night before, Lila heard him whimpering in his sleep. A couple family friends comment on how well therapy worked on their wives over the years. Mr. Graham disagrees.
“Willy’s brain is perfectly fine. All he needs is a good doctor to get him back to peak condition. Maybe get married and settle down.” he says. Will takes a drink of wine and glances around the room for a distraction to throw at his father. Hannibal appears in the doorway, but that only makes it worse. Will’s father yells out, “Ah—Hannibal! Come here. He’s in psychiatry, he’ll back me up.”
Will downs the rest of his drink.
“Dr. Lecter,” Mr. Graham says with a grin, mock unfamiliarity. “What is your professional opinion of our Willy? You know his history, is he mentality impaired or just unhealthy?”
Mentally impaired, Will thinks with a sense of hurt. It isn’t like he and his father have ever been close, but that doesn’t excuse such harsh wording.
“If anything, I would say William is gifted.”
What? He skews his head to stare at Hannibal in complete and utter disbelief. He can tell by the way the man glances around the table that he isn’t the only one.
“How so?” His father asks, skeptically.
“William possesses pure empathy, Mr. Graham. In simpler terms, this implies that he can take on the point of view of any person,” he explains. The words make it seem like Will is out of the room, but the way Hannibal is staring at him, through him, there is no doubt that the doctor is very aware of his presence. As if speaking to Will and only Will. “I imagine this makes it difficult for him to process social situations; too much input equals messy output.”
He blushes, without knowing why. Stands from the table on a quick decision to escape to the cool outdoor air. Ducks his head as he shoves past Hannibal. On the way out the door he sidelines to the bar and gets a tumbler of whiskey. He drinks the first at the bar before getting a second and turning to go out the door, enjoying the slowly numbing feel of the alcohol.
“I sincerely hope I did not cause offense, William.”
Hannibal stands just outside the door on the porch; Will ignores him, sits on the steps and thinks for a moment. Says, “No, I love my mental state being discussed by my father, his friends and my—“
He stops, unable to think of a proper title for Hannibal. Ends up gesturing wildly behind him, as if that clarifies anything. Hannibal sits, one step higher than Will, with his back straight. Will feels himself slouch a bit deeper over his knees.
“It is probably for the best. If any of my colleagues learned of your affliction you would likely be scrutinized.” Will tenses and turns to gape. Hannibal responds by plucking the crystal glass from his hands and taking a long sip of it. Never breaking eye contact.
When the drink returns to Will’s outstretched hand he finishes it.
“I think I’ll go to bed.”
Hannibal nods and stands to see him back through the door, obviously with no intention of following.
“It is good to see you again, William.”
Dawn brings only more sunshine, paired with calmer waves that crash easily upon the shore. Will invites Alana out for another walk. Hannibal is nowhere to be seen on the dock (he is both relieved and disappointed) so they stroll down the beach, taking their shoes off to wade ankle-deep in the water.
Alana’s dress is longer today, so she bunches it in a fist while Will rolls the legs of his pants up.
“Is Lila excited?” Will asks. He has yet to see his sister-bride today, worries for her nervousness.
“She’s great,” Alana replies and Will believes her.
“Of course she is. It’s her day.” It is impossible to keep the sarcasm from his voice. Alana gives him a sideways glare. He throws his hands up defensively. “It isn’t that she won’t be happy. I just think she doesn’t know the guy well enough. You know she’s only going through with it because our dad wants her to.”
Alana sighs. This is likely the last thing she wants to discuss on the day of her best friend’s wedding. In a low voice, she says, “Social conventions.”
“That didn’t stop you from going to the city. Getting an education.”
“Lila and I are very different people.”
Will wonders what Alana Bloom would say if he told her that he’s infatuated with Hannibal Lecter. Alana is obviously interested in him, how much is uncertain, and as much as Will would like to believe she would look past his proclivities due to their friendship, he has heard far too many stories of the opposite. It isn’t worth losing everyone around him.
He imagines his father catching wind of it, his already exasperated suspicions about him proven as he’s sent either to a rehabilitation center or else away from the family for good. Will isn’t sure he could take it, and for what end?
Telling a friend of his unrequited crush? It’s not worth it.
Besides, voicing it aloud would first require him to actually come to terms with what he is. Homosexual, or simply infatuated?
It’s the later, he tells himself. It has to be the later. He isn’t that deranged. There are plenty of things wrong with him, but that isn’t one of him.
“Are you alright, Willy?” Alana asks. Breaking him from his self-deprecating reverie. He pushes the shame from his face and grins.
“Perfect. We should get back, don’t you think?”
The Bridal Chorus echoed through the chapel, sounding out from the deafening pipes of the organ. Will forced himself to ignore the shining tears in Lila’s eyes (tears that had little to do with happiness) as she walked the aisle with her silk-woven train the ceremony proceeded without a hitch. Now, back at the house, Will takes in the spread of dishes laid out for the reception.
Hors d’oeuvresline trays waiting to be circulated by the wait staff: fresh bruschetta topped with balsamic reduction, thyme-roasted chicken hearts, red pepper soufflés topped in crispy prosciutto, vol-au-vent canapés made from caviar, mascarpone and truffle oil. On the next table, prepared plates of salads made from fennel, seared asparagus and crisp spinach. Finally, pieces of roasted pork lay pre-splayed on the countertop. Kept mostly in one piece until the time comes for it to be carved and served. Hannibal even went so far as to gather sprigs of wildflowers from the gardens and fields to decorate the dishes with.
And in the cold box, the towering wedding cake. Will must restrain himself to keep from swiping a finger across the chilled white chocolate, artfully arranged across the dessert.
It’s too much, Will thinks, though he truly believed he never would. The wedding guests number north of one hundred, all currently being packed in tight to their rather large dining room. The family had worried Hannibal wouldn’t accomplish such a feat, returning to their kitchen after almost ten years. As it turns out, there will be leftovers to spare.
Will rubs a hand over his face and strides from the kitchen before Hannibal can return from wherever he’s gone to. He needs a drink.
Throughout the meal, Hannibal politely deflects all attempts at complimenting his masterpiece(s). Of course, because to draw attention away from the bride and groom would be outrageously rude. Completely uncharacteristic of everything Hannibal is.
Will spends the meal drinking, pointedly ignoring everything of substance the servers place in front of him. But it’s a wedding right? What are you supposed to do but drink?
The only thing he eats is the cake at the end, simply because, as the brother of the bride and a member of the bridal party he is one of the first people served. Then, once he starts eating he can’t stop. Will remembers eating this cake when he was younger, baked first by Mrs. Lecter, then by Hannibal himself. It’s Lila’s favorite, but it is also Will’s.
Eating it reminds him of sitting up on a stool in the kitchen and watching Hannibal make it. Reminds him of the way the man held out the spoon for Will to lick the white chocolate off. Part of him wishes he had been present when Hannibal made this one, though that would have been wildly inappropriate, at this age.
Will glances up from his empty plate, looking around the room for the cook himself. Will’s eyes find Hannibal almost directly behind him, a few tables away. He and Alana are talking, and, though Will can’t see Alana’s face, Hannibal is smiling.
His heart feels like it is being ripped from his chest.
He stands too quickly, knocking over his glass of champagne. It was mostly empty anyways, but he can’t help but get flustered, trying to wipe it up with his previously unused napkin.
“Will, how much have you had to drink?” Someone asks. Will laughs in response.
“Just a bit.” As if to emphasize this, he saunters (or tries to saunter) out of the dining room and into the parlor, where the bartender smiles at him.
“What can I get you, Mr. Graham?”
“More champagne, please.” The bartender nods and pulls a bottle from the shelf below, but Will takes it up before he can pour. “Jus’so I dun have tuh come back later.”
His words are slurring. Indicative of severe intoxication, but it doesn’t dissuade him in the least. Choosing not to return to his family in the dining hall, he stumbles out the door, bottle in hand, and onto the patio. Outside, the night air swirls around him. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine the stars coming down from the clear sky to mingle on earth and dance with him.
“Gotta stop drinking,” he mutters to himself, as he raises the bottle to take a huge gulp. He opens his eyes, waiting for the curtains of his drunken haze to part so he can see off onto the grass.
When he does, he sees two figures standing off in the distance, close to one another.
Hannibal and Alana. He can’t really make them out, it’s too blurry, but his imagination does things, terrible things that make his heart seize up in his chest and the bottle nearly slip from his fingers.
“Hey, there!” He calls out, hearing the blending of his words without a care. The two step apart from each other and look back at him. “Woops, am I interrupting somethin’?”
He takes a step down the stairs and nearly stumbles, barely catches himself. Hannibal smirks across the yard at him. And where does a guy get off making faces like that? “No, William.”
He feels sick, but oh, god why can’t he stop talking? “Tonight it’s all about love, right? In all its forms and—and guises.”
He laughs, not really knowing why. Takes a long drink from the bottle and resumes giggling when he lowers it. He walks a bit closer, face falling at how close the two are standing. Still, it is almost too easy to wedge himself between them, hang one hand on Alana’s hip and the other over Hannibal’s shoulder.
Normally, he would balk at touching anyone so informally, but now he sees no reason not to. They know him and he knows them. And they’re friends, right?
“Dinner’s great, Dr. Lecter,” Will mutters.
“Really? I must confess that I noticed you enjoyed nothing but the cake.”
“Wasn’t hungry.”
He glances to the left. With his head in this position, his eyes are right in line with Alana’s lips. Red with lipstick against her pale skin, she looks so…kissable.
He goes for it, straining his neck against both of their grips. He misses terribly (lacking conviction for even drunk kisses, apparently) and lets his head sag slightly. Then, on his other side, he catches sight of another pair of lips. He moves again, hitting the mark this time.
The kiss lasts for all of about a second, but Will clearly feels the lips curl around his own, returning the pressure as quickly as he can before Alana grips his shoulder and pulls him back.
Fuck Alana. He feels instantly guilty for thinking it, is proud of his intoxicated self-control for not saying it. That satisfaction falls away when he realizes what he has just done.
He kissed Hannibal Lecter. His childhood crush, the man he thinks about when he touches himself at night, the man that has absolutely no interest in him whatsoever. He realizes promptly that he must have imagined the lips kissing back. Hannibal doesn’t think about him that way, he’s never shown the slightest bit of notice in response to Will’s attempts at flirtation (as sorry as they may be).
Will’s legs go lax. Thanks to his arms, still tightly hooked around his friends, he stays upright, but only barely. Alana strains to keep him up and eventually Hannibal pulls his body off her, looping his free arm around his waist. Once he regains footing he stumbles backwards, out of their hold.
It feels like his face is on fire, he’s blushing so much.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “It—it’s the wine—“
He turns on his heel. Nearly topples into the grass, but his feet mercifully catch on a dry stone in a sea of dew-moistened grass.
“Such an idiot,” he chides himself, and he feels tears stinging at his eyes. The sleeve of his jacket, already soaked by sweat and what can only be spilt alcohol, wipes against his face. Being drunk is no excuse to start acting like a love-struck girl, Willy.
He walks farther across the yard, the fading lights of the party leaving a warm haze on his back and at the edge of his peripheral vision.
Eventually, he manages to get to the beach, or rather, the cliff overlooking the beach. He lets himself tumble to the ground with a grunt a few yards away from it. Succeeds in sitting upright. He takes a drink of champagne, letting the golden liquid wash the taste of Hannibal from his lips.
In a fit of ridiculous childishness, he glances down at the bottle with a sense of betrayal. Still half-full, he tosses the bottle across the ground in an overhand throw. Feels a bit of satisfaction when he hears it break into a thousand pieces somewhere on the beach, though he can’t see it through the darkness.
“Someone is going to have to clean that up, you know,” a voice says from behind him, and Will tenses up in instant recognition. He’s so mortified that he can’t even force his neck to turn.
“The tide’ll wash it out,” he says. He tries to stand back up, but goes falling forward. Until a hand against his shoulder pulls him backward. Against a chest. He didn’t realize Hannibal had gotten so close.
“Come, now, Will. I think it is time we put you to bed.” Sorry for being an alcoholic, he wants to say in response. Instead, he remains silent and lets himself be guided through the darkness.
He’s fading, fast. Is only vaguely aware of strong arms pulling him across the grass and he knows they feel familiar, but he can’t remember what their pressure on his body means. His eyes continue to droop until suddenly, arbitrarily, he realizes that they aren’t walking back towards the house.
“What?” He asks, voice lacking the volume to be heard. “Where are we going?”
His feet drag and Hannibal hoists him up roughly against his chest. Slaps lightly against his face to help him gain back his bearings. It helps more than expected, Will’s feet gain footing and he manages to stumble along the path. The gardener’s house, built of wood and faded-red bricks, rises up from the night.
Hannibal opens the door with a key pulled swiftly from his pocket and ushers Will, luckily temporarily able to stand. Inside, he can’t see anything and leans up against the wall to wait for Hannibal’s help.
The door shuts and before Will senses any excess motion the warmth of another body presses up against him. He can’t contain the exhalation of surprise that echoes through his ears. Hannibal is unbearably close, their chests practically flush against one another.
“You should not tease people, William,” he says, voice low and dark. The fact that Will can’t see anything makes this all the more terrifying. Still, his body cannot help but alight in interest; his cock already feels heavy between his legs. “It leads to unsolicited consequences.”
Consequences, oh god. A hand delves into the space between his suit jacket and his shirt, pressing roughly against his waist. The other remains firmly planted beside his head. He murmurs the word: “Conse…quences…?”
“You kissed me.” Serious, when he speaks. Eyes lidded as he gazes down at Will.
If he can’t be honest when he’s intoxicated to nearly oblivion, when he won’t see Hannibal (possibly) ever again, after tomorrow, when can he be? It’s now or never.
“I—I’ve had a…sort of crush on you. For a while.”
“How long?” The question comes without pause and Will wishes he had enough bravery to look up into the man’s eyes. He shakes his head; he can’t answer the question. Doesn’t remember when he first realized he was infatuated with the family cook. The man was his first love—easily escaped and forgotten by most, but not by Will. No matter how hard he tried.
Hannibal leans forward, barely half an inch, before appearing to come to a decision. He closes the short distance between his lips and Will’s in an instant. When Hannibal finally kisses him, it’s insisting. All teeth and tongue, forcing his mouth open so quickly that Will wonders how long he has wanted this, ached for it.
The kiss is fast-paced, very nearly leaving Will in the dust. His fingers fly up to take hold of the dove-gray lapels on Hannibal’s jacket, pulling him down closer. The hand previously used to brace Hannibal on the door moves down to Will’s hips, slender fingers curling around his waist to grip his lower back. They are immovably close, yet neither seems able to stop himself from trying for more.
Hannibal breaks off, leaving Will more than slightly dazed. Eyes glassy and mouth hanging gaudily open.
“You kissed me,” Will murmurs. Mirroring Hannibal’s earlier statement without trying to.
“I could hardly resist,” Hannibal chuckles, ducking to ravish his neck.
“Can I…can I have another drink, please?” He asks, looking around the room for a liquor cabinet or something. Despite everything, he’s stalling, but he also knows that if he’s going to get through this (his first sexual encounter past a drunk girl giving him a blowjob behind a bar) he needs to calm down.
“No, you have had enough to drink for one lifetime, I think.” Hannibal leans in closer, murmurs against his ear, “And I want you to remember this in the morning.”
Will gasps, a shot of arousal erupting across his spine, travelling downwards at the speed of light. So quick that it’s almost painful. His hands grab at Hannibal—at his neck, his hair—but they are quickly batted aside so the man can kiss across his jaw without hindrances. Drawing moans and whimpers and all sorts of distressed noises from him.
He feels himself pulled from the doorway. Without the wood to lean on he stumbles, gripping Hannibal for support as he’s led across the room to the bed that once belonged to Hannibal. Though, it seems very much his domain when he’s pushing Will down onto it, making him lie back with a light nudge against his shoulder. A puff of dust flies up with every movement—this quarter’s have been long unused.
“I want to fuck you,” Hannibal says, moving up Will’s body. Oh, shit—“Tell me to fuck you, Will.”
“Someone’ll hear,” he rasps suddenly, nervous despite how much he wants this.
“Everyone is back at the main house, William,” he chides. Lips move against his earlobe, tongue flicking out to drag saliva into the crook between ear and jaw, pressing at it. “Though, I recommend keeping your voice down. I assume you do not wish for your parents to find out about your… persuasions?”
The faces of his mother and father, disappointed and furious, respectively, come unbidden in his mind. He forces them away, unwilling to allow them to kill the mood. Will doesn’t voice the fact that the persuasions mentioned also belong to Hannibal—he is too unaffected to be cautioned by it.
A hand grips his tie in a harsh hold. His back arches of its own accord at the pull. A quick jerk brings him to attention. “Tell me, William.”
Fingertips brush tantalizingly against his clothed crotch, spurring his speech: “Fuck me.”
That’s the only invitation Hannibal requires, pulling the tie from Will’s neck with ease, followed by his rumpled tuxedo jacket and his shirt. By the time hands reach the button of his trousers he is tugging insistently at Hannibal’s own jacket, working at it without direction so hard that the seams may split. Pleasant enough, Hannibal removes his own jacket, shirt and tie.
Bare skin on bare skin makes everything wonderfully, terrifyingly real. Makes him moan and shudder and sob a little, though no tears actually escape his eyes. Lips press to his cheekbones, shushing him as gently as possible even as warm hands part his legs so the larger man can settle between them.
“You haven’t the slightest idea, dear William,” Hannibal whispers. “Not the slightest inclination, how long I have wanted you.”
The words fail to match up with the reality (that Will’s love is, has always been, one-sided) he knows to be true. Fail to register as a result of this and his still distorted cognition. Instead of responding he arches up into the palms of the man’s hands, so they can skim down to nearly nude hipbones. Peel his underwear off.
Before he can move to cover himself modestly, Hannibal’s own hand palms his bare erection. Fingers curling in an iron grip.
Will can’t help but cry out, but before he loses himself to the friction, Hannibal’s hand trails lower between his thighs to prod at his hole and—“Oh!”—he’s never been touched there before. It sends a painful tingle through his body which, for whatever reason, amuses Hannibal to no end.
“Are you nervous?” Will nods, because he is, even through the alcohol burning at his insides. “Try to relax, darling.”
He does, and a finger slides into him. The intrusion is painful, but not intolerably so. A second finger presses in as well, made slick by saliva, or whatever lubrication Hannibal was lucky enough to have on hand. With two fingers inside, the sensation quickly becoming less unfamiliar, it is easy to imagine them expanded and lengthened to the size of Hannibal’s cock, currently hanging full in the man’s trousers.
Will groans. Needs Hannibal above him and inside him. Rolls his hips to imply this and gets a couple thrusts of the fingers in response. They separate in scissoring motions, opening his hole up wider until it’s gaping and desperate for me. Before pulling out, the fingers press against a bundle of nerves deep within him that makes everything clench up deliciously.
“Fuck,” Will mutters when he sees Hannibal’s cock. It isn’t like it’s much larger than his own, but the thought of it being inside him is unpleasant even when he’s already been prepared. He is shushed, hands pressed against the underside of his knees to curl his lower body upwards. Then, he feels the pressure of the head, firm and hot.
Hannibal kisses him through the initial penetration, letting him adjust at his own pace and only thrusting when he keens and begs for a bit more.
This should hurt a lot more than it does. But they’re rocking, back and forth, back and forth, and Hannibal’s fingertips cup the back of his neck and it’s just so intimate. Will doesn’t think he could have asked for something more perfect. It feels right, him quivering beneath long fingertips in the servant’s quarters of his family’s home.
He knows he’s gotten himself into something long-winded and all-consuming. Something more than a relationship with a man, as teeming the implications of that fact are. Because he knows there’s something dangerous about his newly-acquired lover—simultaneously perilous and exhilarating and enigmatic. Addictive.
He knows (the fact is emphasized by the man’s insistent grip on his flesh) that Hannibal will never let him go. He’s strangely ok with this. Accepts it with the aid of intoxication.
Hannibal forces him to meet his eyes, despite the discomfort it causes him. They’re a bit beyond worrying about mild discomfort, though.
“You tried to kiss Alana as well,” he intones. “Why?”
Will shudders, rolls his hips upwards and tries to keep his mouth sealed shut against the whine building in his throat he fails. “I was—am drunk!”
The push and pull of the pressure inside him pauses. “Is that what this is, then? A drunken one-night stand?”
“Nn—no, never,” he sobs, trying to resume the friction. He’s aware that when sobriety finds him he’ll be unable to even sit. But fuck, then Hannibal brushes up against that spot, deep inside him and he hears himself mewl, as if from aside, it feels so good. “More.”
But with the discovery of his prostate, Hannibal has new leverage. “How long have you thought about this, William? About me pinning you to my bed and taking you?”
Forever, he thinks, because he can’t remember a time when he didn’t want Hannibal, in some way or another, though the fantasies have become significantly less innocent as of late. Hannibal gives a particular forceful thrust and the answer flies out of Will’s mouth before he can think of another. “Ah—since, since forever!”
He leans down and kisses him again, tongue tucking into his cheeks and lapping at the roof of his mouth. Until all Will can taste is Hannibal, rich and earthy and spiced. Will jerks upward suddenly, teeth grazing against tongue before he can stop himself. The sensation must be pleasant, because the man groans and drives himself forward, hard.
Will’s eyes snap open and he catches sight of the look on his lover’s face—exultant and adoring. In a moment of clarity he wonders how long Hannibal has thought about doing this. Taking Will, making love to him, because though Hannibal called it fucking there’s little question about what it is when fevered passion laces every kiss, every thrust.
“I want to be with you,” Will says suddenly, surprising even himself. Though, the statement isn’t particularly off topic when he was just asked if this is just a one-night stand. “I think I’m—in love with you.”
Will doesn’t need Hannibal to reciprocate so strong a feeling, doesn’t even want him to, as an admission of that enormity would likely make him freeze and become solid stone. But he needs to say them, needs them to be heard because he’s kept them to himself for so long. And they may seem to Hannibal to be the ramblings of a drunk former-virgin, excited at being touched for the first time, but Will knows they’re true.
Hannibal releases some of his weight, allowing himself to collapse further onto Will and press his back deep into the mattress. His intent face disappears from Will’s line of sight as he ducks to bite Will’s collarbone, burying his cock just a bit deeper.
Will’s ankles clasp tighter around his hips as he orgasms, impetuous and staggeringly. Hannibal finishes as well, with a final thrust, deep and sharp against Will’s insides, a rush of heat as he spills himself.
Afterwards, when Hannibal removes his cock from Will and wipes them both off with a moist cloth, Will feels the exhaustion from earlier doubled due to the physical exertion. With warm arms encircling him it feels all to easy to drift away, but Hannibal seems intent on keeping him awake, eyes open so he can stare into them. For a time, Will is equally entertained by memorizing the dark, maroon flecked eyes presented to him.
“I want you to move in with me, back in Baltimore,” Hannibal says gently. Finally breaks eye contact to inhale the scent of sweat mingling upon Will’s neck. “We are childhood friends; no one will suspect anything.”
Will kisses the man’s hairline, brings his fingers up to brush the strands of hair escaped from the confining product. His eyes close with a thud.
“I know you do not wish for your parents to know. A rekindled friendship between us would make all the sense in the world.”
It takes a moment for him to realize that Hannibal is still trying to convince him, still unsure of the fact that Will would give anything to spend another second with Hannibal, let alone an indefinite amount of time. He opens his eyes and reaches up to cup the man’s jaw.
“Yes.”